


probably a hero

by sskkyyrraa



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Smoking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sskkyyrraa/pseuds/sskkyyrraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You smoke your first cigarette at thirteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	probably a hero

**Author's Note:**

> just playing around w characterizations, back stories, and different styles of writing. Aka second pov in a style that isnt homestuck inspired.

The first time you smoke a cigarette is when you're thirteen. It is just twenty minutes after your father has died. You sit outside of the hospital even though the sun is too bright for the tragedy and the humidity labors your breathing. You are thirteen and you're now the man of the house.

 

The bench creeks when your mother sits next to you. She doesn't say anything but you know it to be her by her presence alone. She is a rock, strong against the current that is your emotions. You lean into her not for comfort (she has none to offer) but to ground yourself. Your mother, large and abrasive but a mother nonetheless, shifts so you may steady yourself with her heartbeat. You count the beats (one-two, one-two, one-two) and she lights a cigarette. She offers you one.

 

Your father would disapprove but he is not here to scold you. He can never warn you of the dangers of smoking again. Never again will he punish you for your lousy grades. He'll never yell at you for passing curfew. Your father is gone. You take the cigarette.

 

Inhale and the smoke fills your lungs, burns your throat. You wonder if this is how your father felt in his last conscious moments, if he knew he'd never breathe in the sea salt air again. A cigarette had been the cause for your father's death and here you are, poisoning yourself with one just minutes later. Smoking hurts but you suppose that makes sense. You exhale.

 

“He was a hero. His death means something,” you are told over and over again. You think it's meant to something, something like how your father's death meant. But being a hero didn't stop him from dying and it didn't stop you from forming a nicotine addiction. You nod, inhale and exhale. No one says anything about the thirteen year old chain smoking but then again, your eight year old sister has been wailing non-stop for three days. She always has to be the center of attention. You rip butts until you're sick and you are allowed to leave the funeral reception early. Everyone touches your hair and offers their condolences. You had to look that word up in the dictionary three hours after your father died. Even knowing the definition, it makes no sense. You finish your first pack of cigarettes when you are thirteen. You are wearing a suit and walking home from your father's funeral.

 

He was a hero, you are forced to remember with each drag. He is gone and your lungs are black and your hands shake. You are afraid to realize you are what most people would probably consider a hero.

 

 


End file.
